Charlotte never finished her sentence. Jem doubled up suddenly, as if he had been punched in the stomach, with a fit of coughing so severe that his thin shoulders shook. A spray of red blood spattered the sleeve of his jacket as he raised his arm to cover his face.
“Jem—” Charlotte started forward with her arms out, but he staggered upright and away from her, holding his hand out as if to ward her off.
“I’m al right,” he gasped. “I’m fine.” He wiped blood from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Please, Charlotte,” he added in a defeated voice as she moved toward him. “Don’t.”
Charlotte stopped herself, her heart aching. “Is there nothing—”
“You know there’s nothing.” He lowered his arm, the blood on his sleeve like an accusation, and gave her the sweetest smile. “Dear Charlotte,” he said. “You have always been like the best sort of older sister I could have hoped for. You do know that, don’t you?”
Charlotte just looked at him, openmouthed. It sounded so much like a good-bye, she could not bear to reply. He turned with his usual light tread and made his way out of the room. She watched him go, tel ing herself it meant nothing, that he was no worse than he had been, that he stil had time. She loved Jem, as she loved Wil —as she could not help loving them al —and the thought of losing him shattered her heart. Not only for her own loss, but for Wil ’s. If Jem died, she could not help but feel, he would take al that was stil human about Wil with him when he went.
*
It was nearly midnight when Wil returned to the Institute. It had begun raining on him when he’d been halfway down Threadneedle Street. He had
ducked under the awning of Dean and Son Publishers to button his jacket and pul his scarf tight, but the rain had already gotten into his mouth— great, icy drops that tasted of charcoal and silt. He had hunched his shoulders against the needlelike sting of it as he’d left the shelter of the awning and headed past the Bank, toward the Institute.
Even after years in London, rain made him think of home. He stil remembered the way it had rained in the countryside, in Wales, the green fresh taste of it, the way it felt to rol over and over down a damp hil side, getting grass in your hair and clothes. If he shut his eyes, he could hear his sisters’ laughter echo in his ears. Will, you’ll ruin your clothes; Will, Mother will be furious . . .
Wil wondered if you could ever real y be a Londoner if you had that in your blood—the memory of great open spaces, the wideness of the sky, the clear air. Not these narrow streets choked with people, the London dust that got everywhere—in your clothes, a thin powdering on your hair and down the back of your neck—the smel of the filthy river.
He had reached Fleet Street. Temple Bar was visible through the mist in the distance; the street was slick with rain. A carriage rattled by as he ducked into an al ey between two buildings, the wheels splashing dirty water up against the curb.
He could see the spire of the Institute in the distance now. They had certainly already finished supper, Wil thought. Everything would be put away.
Bridget would be asleep; he could duck into the kitchen and cobble together a meal from bread and cheese and cold pie. He had been missing a great many meals lately, and if he was truthful with himself, there was only one reason for it: He was avoiding Tessa.
He did not want to avoid her—indeed, he had failed miserably at it that afternoon, accompanying her not just to training but also to the drawing room afterward. Sometimes he wondered if he did these things just to test himself. To see if the feelings had gone. But they had not. When he saw her, he wanted to be with her; when he was with her, he ached to touch her; when he touched even her hand, he wanted to embrace her. He wanted to feel her against him the way he had in the attic. He wanted to know the taste of her skin and the smel of her hair. He wanted to make her laugh.
He wanted to sit and listen to her talk about books until his ears fel off. But al these were things he could not want, because they were things he could not have, and wanting what you could not have led to misery and madness.
He had reached home. The door of the Institute swung open under his touch, opening onto a vestibule ful of flickering torchlight. He thought of the blur the drugs had brought to him in the den on Whitechapel High Street. A blissful release from wanting or needing anything. He had dreamed he was lying on a hil in Wales with the sky high and blue overhead, and that Tessa had come walking up the hil to him and had sat down beside him. I love you, he had said to her, and kissed her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Do you love me?
She had smiled at him. You will always come first in my heart, she had said.